Whispers in the Fog

The village of Ravenshade was always enveloped in mist. Some said it was cursed, others claimed it was just the weather, but those who lived there knew the truth - hiding in the fog.

Hannah Carter never believed in a ghost story. As a practical woman at the end of her 20s, she was proud of her skepticism. When she moved to the old Ashford Manor on the village beach, she dismissed the warning from the city pool.

"The house is haunted," she whispered. "Lady Evelyn is still passing through the hall, looking for a lost child."

Hannah laughed at her superstition. Despite her age, the Manor House was beautiful - in the windows, intricate wood carvings and the eerie charm that made her feel like she'd entered another time. A complete retreat for those looking for peace and loneliness.

The first night is peaceful, and the only sound is the occasional creak of old wooden floorboards. But soon they become unstable by strange events.

It started with a whisper. At first, he thought it was the wind that would slide the crack, but as the night passed, the marble was revealed. A soft, hopeless voice repeated the same name: She heard a time too strange - lightly heheeding the hallway. Once, when she read in the fireplace, she swore, she heard her stop in front of her bedroom door. She held her breath and waited, grabbing the armrest of the chair. The hallway was empty when she finally gained the courage to show her.

On a stormy night, when lightning flashed across the sky, she noticed something special in the library. One of the oldest games in the house, the bookshelves had deep grooves along the edges, as if they had been moved frequently. Meanwhile, she was pushed out of her mood.

The bookshelves have been shifted. Behind it was a hidden door

. The air was old, and inside, it was thickened with a smell of dust and rot. It was a small kindergarten that had been forgotten by then. An old crib was in the corner and covered with a cob nest. Small dust-related toys were scattered across the ground. However, it was the wall that sent the cold Hannah's spine along.

Scraped over and over again on the plaster, there was a single name: Oliver.

The cold air stroked my head. The whispers are back, this time it's even more urgent. "Find him..."

Hannah escaped from the room, her pulse slammed into her ear. She barely slept that night. When she finally fell, she consumed a vibrant dream.

A woman in a flowing white dress stood by the window. Her eyes were turned to Hannah, filled with unbearable sadness.

"Help me," she pleaded. "Find him."

Hannah twitched, and her body smoothed out before she sweated. The woman's face was still engraved in her thoughts.

Lady Evelyn.

The next morning, he was looking for Mr. Alistair, the village historian. He was an older man with deep eyes who saw the decades of Ravens Shard history. His expression became darker as he mentioned Ashford Manor.

"Mrs. Evelyn Ashford lost her only son, Oliver, more than a century ago," he said. "He was only four years old. He disappeared on a stormy night. She was searching for every inch of this house for him, but he was never found.

Hannah's trembling. "And a whisper? Step?"

Mr. Alistair hesitated before answering. "She is still looking for him even after he dies."

Hannah couldn't shake the feeling that Oliver's body had never left the mansion. That night, she took a flashlight, searched every inch of the house, knocked on the floorboards, checked the attic, and combed the basement. There is nothing. she stepped outside, and the mist clinched to her like cold fingers. The garden behind the house was overgrown and revolved around forgotten statues and crumbling stone paths. Her legs slammed a bit harder as she handed her grape tangles.

Good.

An old, crumbling fountain, almost hidden from its thick leaves.

Her heart smacked as she peered in. The whispers grew louder. "Please help..."

explained all their courage and contacted the authorities. Their worst fears were confirmed when they excavated the fountain. A small skeleton was buried under a stone wrapped in the ruins of a child's nightgown. The small silver medallion, still attached to the artifact, was called Oliver Ashford.

The village was silent on the news. The secret was resolved a century later. Oliver had never left the house - he was always there, waiting to be found.

Hannah dreamed of Mrs. Evelyn that night. However, this time, the sadness had disappeared from her face. She stood on the edge of Hannah's bed, smiling, her eyes filled with gratitude. A gentle breeze blew through the room as the first light of dawn was filtered through the curtains.

I never heard the whispers in the mist again.